


The Shop on Iris Lane

by iam93percentstardust



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Background Renfri | Shrike/Triss Merigold, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon's Parent, Getting Together, Injury, Jaskier | Dandelion and Renfri | Shrike are Siblings, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Miscommunication, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Past Violence, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:47:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26513167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iam93percentstardust/pseuds/iam93percentstardust
Summary: No matter what his sister or his best friend claim, Jaskier isn’t lonely. How could he be? He’s got his shop and his regulars and brunch with the other shop owners on the street, what’s to be lonely about?So maybe he sometimes wishes he could hold someone at night. So maybe he’s getting tired of the constant one night stands. So maybe this isn’t the life he envisioned for himself when he was younger. He’s perfectly happy, right?At least, he is until a tattoo artist with the most unusual eyes moves in next door with his daughter and shows him that there’s more to life than selling flowers and strumming his guitar.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Renfri | Shrike, Jaskier | Dandelion & Triss Merigold
Comments: 48
Kudos: 369
Collections: Witcher Big Bang





	The Shop on Iris Lane

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my absolutely fantastic beta [desitonystark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/desitonystark/pseuds/desitonystark) for all the work she put into this, I really appreciate it.
> 
> And especially thank you to [dls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dls/pseuds/dls) who did the absolutely incredible banner and moodboard you can find below! It was such a delight getting to work with you!
> 
> The first song Jaskier sings is from Pete's Dragon (2016)
> 
> See end notes for spoilers about Past Violence tag

Jaskier has a tattoo on his hip.

He thinks it’s a classy little thing, a dandelion blowing away in the wind. It’s a metaphor or something like that. Renfri thinks it looks stupid but what does she know anyway? _She_ has a couple daggers tattooed on her back like that’s not stupid at all. She also has a bird, one of those vicious little ones that Jaskier can’t remember the name of, on her hip and that’s definitely not stupid, that’s terrifying, but he’ll never tell her that.

Jaskier got his tattoo at the tender age of twenty-one right after his mum died and left him the flower shop. He would be honored by being left her pride and joy, her shop that’s been in the family for over a century, if it hadn’t been for the fact that she’d left Renfri her Gibson signed by Brian May himself. And if that hadn’t told anyone the kind of woman his mother had been, the fact that her will had contained a very politely worded “Fuck you” had. Renfri hadn’t even left their attorney’s office before passing him the guitar. He had asked her if she’d wanted the flower shop in return but she’d taken one look at the old store with its peeling paint and dilapidated displays and all but laughed him out of the office.

And that had been the death of Jaskier’s dreams of becoming a musician.

“You know you didn’t _have_ to take over the shop,” Triss had pointed out once about a month after he’d taken over.

Sometimes he agrees with her. He thinks about how he’d gotten top marks in all his classes, how his piano teacher (and his violin teacher and his guitar teacher) had said he’d go far with a career in music. He thinks about how happy Renfri is with her detective business and thinks he should have just left the shop to go under. Their mother had certainly run it far enough into the ground. The old thing had been practically falling apart by the time it came into Jaskier’s hands and the rest of the street, which had always taken its cues from the flower shop since before Jaskier had been born, had been coming down with it. It wouldn’t have taken more than a little nudge from him to bring it down completely.

Most of the time though, he comes downstairs in the morning and looks around the little store that he’s since remodeled and renamed A New Leaf—he likes puns, sue him—looks at the vibrant flowers filling the shop until it’s nearly bursting at the seams and feels a deep satisfaction. He’s completely managed to revitalize the store and as a result, brought back life to the entire street. What’s not to be proud of that?

He has regulars now, something his mother had never managed to have. She had only gotten occasional stops from husbands needing an apology for their wives, sons forgetting their mothers’ birthdays, boyfriends proposing to their girlfriends (a lot of men now that Jaskier’s thinking about it and he’s pretty sure that says something), and of course, the tourists. Oxenfurt is an old, historic town that brings in a lot of out-of-towners, both for the college and for the town, and Iris Lane, located in the oldest part of the town, has always brought in its fair share. There would always be at least one or two tourists in her shop each day, wanting something small to remember the town by. Jaskier doesn’t know why; flowers are transient. Who wants to remember something with a flower? At least pick up one of those stupid key chains from one of the gift shops a few streets over.

Anyway, Jaskier has regulars. Every Monday, Mr. Evans comes in to purchase eleven roses for his wife of over fifty years. Jaskier arranges the flowers with one fake rose because, as Mr. Evans says, he’ll love her until the day the last rose dies, which always makes Jaskier’s heart melt. He’s a hopeless, shameless romantic; he loves stories like that. The first Saturday of every month brings Juliette, only a few years older than Jaskier, who buys whatever he has in yellow to take to her mother’s grave. On busy weeks, he always makes sure to hold a few flowers in the back just for her, even though she never asks him to. On Wednesdays during spring, Mrs. Pickory buys a bouquet of hyacinths to apologize to her husband for whatever she breaks that week. She buys other flowers throughout the rest of the year but during spring it’s always hyacinths because it’s the only flower Jaskier carries that says, “I’m sorry.” He hadn’t even known about the language of flowers before she’d told him about the hyacinth. He knows now though because even though it’s a ridiculous idea for a florist to make arrangements out of secret messages, there’s always someone who comes in looking specifically for something like that.

Whenever he feels that old wanderlust that had drawn him to the traveling life of a musician, he always packs up his mum’s guitar and travels a few cities over where no one knows him. There’s always a bar with an open mic night. He can spend a few hours playing, getting his fix, and on those nights when his longing is particularly bad, there’s always enough time afterward to go to a club and find someone who’ll take him back to their place.

He always leaves early in the morning so he can make it back home in time to open up the shop. The bakery across the street is always open before he gets home, Triss always waving hello with a knowing smile on her face. Jaskier refuses to feel bad about his nights out though. He’s a young, healthy man with an active sex drive and if he wants someone to plow him through the mattress, then that’s his own choice. He’s always careful—with his choice of partners if not with his heart.

Jaskier is a romantic who falls a little in love with everyone he meets. There’s nothing wrong with that. He’s content with his life, with his little shop and his sister and friends and the pieces of his heart that he gives away so freely. Maybe it’s not the life he would have chosen for himself but it’s the life he’s got and he’s finding that he loves it.

He’s happy, no matter what Renfri and Triss say.

* * *

Iris Lane is one of the oldest streets in Oxenfurt or, depending on which tour guide you speak to, _the_ oldest street in Oxenfurt. It runs about ten stores long and includes, among other things, a small café, a bookshop, a bakery, a yarn supply store, and of course, A New Leaf, most of which have been there since the town’s opening. Iris Lane proudly boasts being entirely locally owned, no insidious corporations anywhere to be found. There have been a few attempts by Walmart to undersell them but the people of Oxenfurt adore Iris Lane. Those stores aren’t going anywhere.

Jaskier’s store is located across the street from Triss’s Treats, a bakery that specializes in the most unusual—and best—flavors of cupcakes Jaskier has ever had. Triss is particularly good at guessing which flavor each customer is going to order; Jaskier suspects witchcraft. To his right is a bookshop, so old that the sign faded two centuries ago. These days everyone just calls it The Bookshop. Whenever Jaskier passes it by, he always makes sure to wave to the large grey cat that naps in the window. The left side of his shop used to be bordered by a record shop but Valdo Marx (and Jaskier will never admit to helping with this) was run out of town two months ago and the shop’s been empty ever since.

Jaskier knows each and every person who works on Iris Lane, from the shop owners to their employees. He grew up with most of them, was there when they inherited the business from their parents. He knows what they’re like, knows that they’re his kind of people. So he feels pretty confident in saying that there has not and never will be a tattoo shop on Iris Lane.

Until there is.

* * *

Someone has been in the process of moving into the shop next door for the last three weeks. Mostly, it’s been happening at night, which has kept Jaskier up at all hours of the night. It would irritate him—he needs his beauty sleep; he isn’t naturally this pretty—but he’s the only shop owner on the entire street who lives above their store so he doesn’t feel like he has the right to complain. Besides, who would he complain to? He’s never seen anyone in the shop during the day so other than the licensing board, there’s no one to complain.

The odd schedule means that for three weeks, he’s the only one who knows that there’s another store moving in. Then he makes the mistake of bringing it up at Iris Lane’s weekly Sunday brunch.

“A new store?” Francesca asks incredulously. Francesca runs the yarn store while her wife, Maria, owns the café that hosts the brunch. Jaskier likes the two of them. Maria likes to use him as a taste tester for her incredible sandwiches and every year for his birthday and Christmas, Francesca gifts him a new scarf, which is great because he’s always losing his.

“Yep,” Jaskier says. He strums a note on his guitar. “Hey, do you like—”

“Not now, Jaskier,” Triss says impatiently. Jaskier makes a wounded sound and clutches his guitar to his chest. “Tell us about the new shop.”

“Well there isn’t very much to tell, is there?” he says defensively. “I haven’t met them. They’ve been moving in at night. The windows are still covered with curtains. It could be anyone: another record shop—”

Everyone groans at that, still traumatized by Valdo Marx and his terrible, pompous ways.

“—maybe a bookstore, a new one this time.” Jaskier glances apologetically at Mr. Sapkowski’s empty spot. He doesn’t often join them, claims to be far too old and boring for that, but Jaskier likes it when he does. The man tells the best stories. And Jaskier does love The Bookshop. It’s just that the books Mr. Sapkowski sells are all old and valuable. Jaskier’s pretty sure the only modern book he’s ever seen in The Bookshop had been a first edition of _The Hobbit_.

“Could be one of those hipster crystal shops popping up all over the place. Renfri said a few moved in near her firm—”

“Or maybe,” Delphine says distastefully, “it’s a tattoo parlor.”

“It’s a _what_?” Jaskier asks, almost spitting out his mimosa.

“A tattoo parlor,” Delphine repeats. She gestures out the window and, practically as one, everyone turns to see.

“I don’t see anything that makes you think it’s a tattoo shop,” Triss says doubtfully. “I just see a man—a muscular man.”

Triss is certainly right on that count. The man currently hanging the _Geralt’s_ sign across the street is at least a couple inches taller than Jaskier—and far more muscular. Jaskier doesn’t consider himself flabby but this guy’s muscles have muscles and even from across the street, he exudes an air of coiled strength that makes Jaskier shiver. Most intriguing is his hair, which is pure white and currently held back from his face in a messy bun. And those black sleeves, rolled up to the elbows to perfectly showcase his forearms? _What a specimen_ , Jaskier thinks longingly. His last couple bed partners—should he call them lovers? Fuckbuddies?—hadn’t been very impressive at all. But this man—oh if only he turned out to be gay.

He’s so caught up in looking at the man that he almost completely misses Delphine saying, “My son, Arnold—he’s a doctor—”

“—we know,” everyone finishes for her.

She sniffs haughtily. Sometimes, Jaskier thinks it’s a shame Delphine’s perfumery is the oldest shop on the street because he thinks she could also do with being run out of town (other times, he remembers the delicious gossip she always has and reluctantly sets aside his dislike).

“My son was looking into getting a tattoo,” she continues after a moment. “I disavowed him of that notion, of course, but I remember he was looking at _that_ hooligan in particular. I remember because of that white hair.”

Jaskier has heard Delphine’s rant on tattoos before after he was fixing her sign and his shirt rode up but that’s the only reason he doesn’t squirm guiltily at her tone of displeasure. She has a way of making everyone feel guilty, even if they haven’t actually done anything.

“Mark my words, that man is trouble. He’ll go the same way as Valdo if he’s not careful.”

“Well, _I_ think we should bring him an Iris Lane Gift Basket,” Jaskier says thoughtlessly.

He can practically hear the conversation screech to a halt.

Delphine splutters for words for a moment but she eventually manages to get out, “Absolutely not. That man is little more than a barbarian—”

“He’s wearing a man bun.”

“—and he probably has _tattoos_ —”

“—which look like they’re hidden underneath his clothes—”

“—and this is—”

“—a _wonderful_ idea,” Triss cuts in smoothly.

“It is?” Delphine gasps, scandalized.

“It is?” Jaskier asks confusedly. He’d thought for sure that Triss would talk him out of it. They’ve never had a store like Geralt’s before. Even the record store had been a little too modern for quiet Iris Lane. He would have figured that everyone would go along with Delphine’s outrage. After all, while he didn’t have anything against tattoo shops personally, he _had_ been offering to take the gift basket over so that he could see if the man is as gorgeous up close as he is from across the street.

“Absolutely,” Triss agrees. She throws a quick glance at Francesca and Maria that tells Jaskier he probably missed something important while he’d been debating with Delphine. “And you’re the friendliest of all of us so we’ve decided that you should take it over.”

“Me?” Jaskier asks. He hasn’t delivered a gift basket in years. In fact, he’s pretty sure that the last time, he had been a child. Jaskier’s great when he’s trying to seduce someone and with people he knows but he’s terribly awkward around new people and everyone knows that.

Triss smiles brightly. “You,” she states. Maria, who at some point must have disappeared into the back to grab one of the gift baskets, thrusts the basket into his arms, hard enough that he stumbles back a couple steps.

* * *

An Iris Lane gift basket, true to its name, is a gift basket comprised of something from each shop on the street. Mr. Sapkowski always provides a bookmark, Francesca gives tea cozies, Maria and Triss food of some kind. They’ve got the routine down pat by this point, even keeping a couple baskets in reserve. Of course, Maria needs to grab a couple of sandwiches from the back and Jaskier will need to swing by A New Leaf before he heads over but other than that, the basket is already ready since Triss had put chocolate in this one rather than the usual cupcake.

Maria drops the sandwiches in, artistically rearranges everything, and lets Jaskier go. He swings by his shop first to grab a couple flowers—dandelions and buttercups, of course; the basket is supposed to be a representative of the shop owners—before heading over.

Up close, the man is, in fact, just as gorgeous as Jaskier thought from the café. He’s still on the ladder and hasn’t noticed Jaskier yet, which gives him plenty of time to ogle the man in peace. He lets his admiring gaze trail over the rippling muscles, linger on the perfectly shaped ass, and down over his shoes until he’s looking at the storefront, where his eyes alight on a girl about thirteen with hair almost as white as the man’s (he can’t help but wonder if it’s the man’s natural color) sitting on the front stoop and smirking at him.

“Ah,” Jaskier says. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” the girl replies. “Everyone does it.”

“Right,” Jaskier says uncertainly.

“What’s that?” the man asks in a deep, gravelly voice that makes Jaskier shiver.

“Visitor,” the girl calls up.

The man looks down and Jaskier is suddenly greeted with the most golden eyes he’s ever seen. They’re not even hazel, almost unnatural in their intensity. Jaskier’s breath catches and he sways on the spot, pinned in place by those beautiful eyes.

Those eyes narrow. “Hmm,” he grunts. He turns back to the sign to finish hanging it, leaving Jaskier suddenly free to move again.

One last nail and then the man is climbing down the ladder. Jaskier shifts the basket to one arm and holds out his hand. “Jaskier,” he says politely. “I own A New Leaf next door.”

“Hmm,” the man says, looking him up and down. Jaskier’s sure—or at least, he hopes—that he doesn’t mean to ignore the hand but that’s what ends up happening.

He clenches his hand back into a fist and awkwardly drops it to his side. “And you must be Geralt?” he asks since the man doesn’t seem inclined to say anything. “We brought you this gift basket to give you a big welcome from Iris Lane!”

The man continues studying him with those unusual eyes. The girl is looking between the two of them with the most delighted expression on her face.

“Come on,” Jaskier cajoles, shifting from foot to foot. He’s a naturally exuberant person but even his enthusiasm is starting to wane in the face of such disinterest from, well with the lack of an actual name, he’s going to call the man Geralt. “You don’t want to keep a man with—” He looks down at the basket and grimaces. This is going to sound so awkward. “—bread in his basket waiting.”

Yep, called it.

The girl bursts out laughing and there’s even a small twitch that might be the barest hint of a smile from Geralt. After a moment, Geralt says, “Come on in,” and jerks his head at the shop. Jaskier doesn’t punch the air in triumph but it’s a near thing.

Jaskier hasn’t been in many tattoo shops, only three. The two that Renfri had gotten her tattoos done at had been like the stereotypical tattoo shop: painted dark, a little dirty, with music playing loud enough he’d gotten a headache. To this day, Jaskier doesn’t know how she managed to escape an infection but that’s just exactly like Renfri. Luck of the devil, she has.

Geralt’s shop is more like the place Jaskier got his dandelion at: clean, almost sterile, smelling slightly of antiseptic, and painted white in stark contrast to Geralt’s all black clothing. They’ve had a wall put in, separating the front from the back, where he assumes all the actual needles are. There’s a large binder on the front desk, presumably with Geralt’s designs although the screen hanging behind the desk has a slideshow of the designs as well. Jaskier even recognizes a couple of them from Pinterest.

He sets the basket down on the counter before hopping up beside it. “Do you have an Instagram?” he asks. “You should definitely get one if you don’t. Your designs are amazing.”

Geralt pauses at the sight of him on the counter and sighs. “Don’t do that.” He waits until Jaskier has jumped back down to say, “Ciri runs the account.”

“Oh that’s nice. Who’s Ciri?”

Geralt frowns and gestures at the girl.

“Right.” Jaskier waits for Geralt to say something, anything, but when it doesn’t happen, he clicks his tongue and asks, “So…what brings you to Oxenfurt?”

Geralt’s face abruptly goes harsh and closed-off. “We’re done,” he growls.

“What?” Jaskier exclaims. “I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry for whatever I said.”

“Bye,” Geralt says, all but pushing him out the door.

“Sorry,” Jaskier mutters again as he lands on the sidewalk, righteously indignant. “Rude.” He starts to head back to the café but glances back once more, just in time to see Geralt pluck one of the dandelions from the basket and hand it to Ciri, his entire face softening as he looks at her. Ciri giggles and tucks the flower behind her ear before hugging him. Geralt doesn’t exactly hug her back but he pats her shoulder instead. Jaskier thinks that shouldn’t be enough but when Ciri steps away, she looks perfectly content.

“Huh,” Jaskier murmurs thoughtfully.

* * *

“Geralt…Geralt Rivia?” Renfri wonders.

“Maybe,” Jaskier says as he paces from one end of his flat to the other. “Ren, the guy didn’t even tell me his first name, let alone his last.”

“White hair. Creepy gold eyes. Big as fuck.”

“Yeah, that’s him!” he exclaims delightedly. Then he frowns. “His eyes aren’t creepy. They’re _lovely_.”

On the other end of the line, he can hear her pause. Knowing her, she’s probably pulled the phone from her ear to stare incredulously at it. He waits impatiently for her to come back.

“Jas, you need to stay away from him,” Renfri says flatly.

Now it’s his turn to gape at the phone. “What do you mean?”

“Look, he was all but run out of Novigrad.”

“For _what?_ ”

“He beat some guy half to death. The jury ruled it self-defense but no one would get a tattoo from him after that. They said you could just feel the crazy coming off of him. I mean it, Jas. That guy is dangerous.”

“You didn’t see him today,” Jaskier says quietly. “The way he was with his daughter, no one who acts like that is dangerous. I mean, sure, he was a little grumpy but underneath that, honestly, I think he’s just kind of…lonely.”

He hears his sister sigh. It’s more of a groan and Jaskier smiles to himself. He knows what that sigh means. It means that he’s won.

“I’m not going to be able to stop you, am I?” she asks.

“Nope!” is his blithe answer.

“And you’re going to be his new friend?”

“I’m going to be his new friend!”

“Dammit, Jas. If you end up murdered in an alley, I’m not going to avenge you.”

“Dear sister, I’d be more surprised if you _did_ avenge me.”

He knows it’s a joke, knows that Renfri would tear down heaven and hell if he ever got hurt, but he can’t help but play along. Renfri is worried, he can hear it beneath her casually unaffected tone, and the calmer he is, the more she’ll relax. There really is no need to worry.

He’s sure that underneath that gruff exterior, Geralt is really just a big softie.

* * *

Jaskier swings by the tattoo parlor early the next morning as he’s opening up A New Leaf, armed with two of Triss’ cookies and a small bouquet of daffodils. He knocks for a couple minutes before Geralt swings open the door with a grunted, “What?”

Geralt takes one look at the flowers and cookies and then at Jaskier. “No.”

The door swings shut and, for good measure, locks.

“Rude,” Jaskier huffs. He considers his options. He could, of course, keep knocking, which would make him a nuisance and possibly alienate himself from the person he would very much like to be friends with. Alternatively, he could just leave the present on the doorstep—and that’s exactly what he ends up doing.

He forgets about it for the rest of the morning and it isn’t until he’s ducking out for lunch that he thinks to look at Geralt’s door. A self-satisfied thrill goes through him when he realizes that the flowers and cookies are gone. Maybe someone stole them but this is Iris Lane. People don’t do that here.

And as he’s sweeping the sidewalk in front of his shop later that afternoon, he looks up to see Ciri come home from school. She’s greeted by Geralt and a daffodil tucked behind her ear.

Jaskier beams hard enough his cheeks hurt.

* * *

Four days later, Geralt growls, “No,” and shuts the door in his face. Undeterred, Jaskier places down a plate of petit-fours and a bouquet of primroses, along with a vase because it had occurred to him late last night that maybe Geralt doesn’t have one and that might be why he keeps turning Jaskier away day after day. He can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t have a _vase_ but maybe he’s just biased because he owns a flower shop.

Somebody takes a tattoo of their authentic Geralt Rivia tattoo later that day and posts it on Instagram. In the background, Jaskier can see the vase with the primroses sitting on the front counter.

* * *

A week after that, Geralt doesn’t even bother opening the door. Jaskier is still undeterred. He leaves cupcakes and tulips on the doorstep.

Ciri is wearing a flower crown made out of the tulips the next day.

* * *

“Do you have to keep doing this?” Geralt asks wearily.

“Yep,” Jaskier chirps. “Until you accept my gifts.”

The door closes.

He lays down his latest bouquet of hyacinth and iris. He likes purple and even though they’re not the same shade, he thinks they go rather well together. Beside it, he places a cake that he’d baked yesterday in a pique of anxiety. He’ll deny to his dying day that he stress bakes but it’s something that makes Triss laugh every time she finds out about it—especially because he’s a terrible baker. He wouldn’t normally inflict his awful baking on someone he’s trying to befriend but honestly, Geralt’s continued refusals are a little frustrating (and a lot rude) and he thinks it might be amusing.

To him, at least.

Hopefully, Geralt has a sense of humor.

* * *

“Are you trying to poison me?” Geralt asks the next day.

“Yes,” Jaskier deadpans. “That’s why I keep bringing you sweets from Triss and flowers from my shop. That’s the only possible reason.”

“Hmm.”

“Are you going to let me actually give you my offering today or am I going to have to leave it on the doorstep like a particularly affectionate alley cat?”

“A not inaccurate observation.”

Jaskier gapes at him. “You take that back!”

“No.” And the door closes but he could swear he sees the glimmer of a smile lurking in Geralt’s eyes before he disappears. Jaskier grins to himself and puts the cupcakes and azaleas down.

As he leaves, he hears the door open again.

* * *

A few days later, he wakes up too late to drop the usual gift off at Geralt’s. He barely even has enough time to open his own shop on time and has to scramble like a madman in the last few minutes before opening. He tells himself that he’s not disappointed he couldn’t take anything to Geralt (he’s lying).

He’s about halfway through the morning and tying off the stems on an order that’ll be picked up that afternoon. Distracted by the tricky ribbon—seriously, who wants their flowers tied off with _velvet_?—he calls without looking up, “Welcome to A New Leaf. I’ll be with you—”

He looks up and stops. Immediately, he sets aside the order and leans forward, resting his elbows on the counter as he grins. “Why Geralt, what brings you to my shop?” he asks, flirtatiously because Geralt is in _his shop_ , dammit. This is a win for him.

Geralt looks huge, hulking as he tries to hide himself behind one of the displays.

“Oh no,” Jaskier tsks. “It’s too late. I’ve already seen you.”

“Thought maybe you were sick,” Geralt grunts, looking anywhere but at the florist.

Jaskier’s grin grows bigger. “Is it possible you actually missed my gifts?”

“No,” he instantly denies.

“You did.” Jaskier won’t even try to hide his delight. This is a far better development than he’d thought. “You were worried about me.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“…Fuck.”

He decides to put the poor guy out of his misery. “Well, as you can see—” He spreads his arms wide and spins in a circle. “—I’m perfectly fine. Just slept through my alarm this morning.”

“Great,” Geralt says shortly, stalking back toward the door. “Glad we had this talk.”

“Don’t worry,” Jaskier calls after him. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning—and this time, you better let me in.”

* * *

He doesn’t. But that’s okay. Jaskier knows the truth now.

* * *

Geralt and Ciri have been on Iris Lane for two months now. Truth be told, Jaskier’s more than a little surprised that they’ve lasted this long. Oh not because Geralt isn’t talented because he is. Geralt has talent in spades. But Iris Lane caters to a certain type of clientele, even if the rest of Oxenfurt doesn’t and he would never have thought that the tattoo parlor would be a good fit. And truthfully, Geralt _isn’t_ a good fit. He’s never once gotten an invitation to their weekly brunch. Delphine can’t stand him, most of the other shopkeepers are dead afraid of him, and it seems like Francesca and Maria only tolerate him at best. Only Triss and Jaskier actually like him and of those two, only Jaskier is making any sort of effort to become Geralt’s friend. So no, Geralt is a terrible fit for the open and friendly bonds that exist between the Iris Lane shopkeepers.

 _Ciri_ , on the other hand…

The best word Jaskier can use to describe everyone’s reaction to Ciri is complete and utter _adoration_. It’s interesting—Ciri shouldn’t be as universally loved as she is. She can come off as a little haughty and there’s a sort of arrogance to her that shouldn’t be as endearing as it is but there you have it. It _is_ endearing and as even Jaskier loves her to pieces, he can’t really complain.

Besides, the more he learns about the girl, the more he realizes how much of her haughtiness is a result of her upbringing.

She comes to visit him every day on her way home from school, usually perching on his counter as she talks. During those visits, he finds out that Ciri was the product of a one-night stand during Geralt’s college days. He hadn’t even known about Ciri until her mum passed away and, as dictated in the will, Ciri went to live with her birth father.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says sincerely. “Can you pass me that ribbon?”

“The bright blue one?” she asks and when he nods, passes it over. “Don’t worry about it. I was still really young and I like living with Dad. I loved Mum a lot but she was really rich and you know what those people are like.”

Jaskier does indeed. He’s made plenty of visits to stately mansions for deliveries. “Everything’s a museum and everyone looks funny at you if you so much as breathe on their precious artwork?”

“Yeah, exactly. It kind of felt like that growing up with her. She made me get this tutor when I was like three so that I could be ahead of everyone else in school, not that I went to school anyway. Mum wanted me homeschooled. Geralt’s the one who put me in public school, said it would be good for me to be around other kids my age.”

So that would explain the occasional awkwardness. He doesn’t tell her that though. Early teenage years are rough enough without needing that hanging over her head.

“When did you move in with Geralt?” he asks before he realizes that that might bring up memories she’d rather forget.

Ciri doesn’t seem bothered though. “I was six so…seven years ago?” she says, counting the years on her fingers.

“He seems nice,” Jaskier offers.

Ciri snorts. “He’s an ass and I say that as his daughter.”

He mildly says, “Watch your language.”

“You’re not my dad,” she says cheerfully, swinging her legs against the counter. It makes a dull thud against the wood with each impact. “Dad’s great and I really appreciate him taking me in but he’s always grumpy and he’s super overprotective.”

“Oh?” he asks, trying to pretend that he’s not overly interested in her answer. Sue him, he likes to hear the gossip.

“Yeah. That’s why we came out here. There was this guy who was following me home from school everyday so I told Dad about it and he went off on him. Dad didn’t get charged for it cause I’m a minor and the judge was sympathetic but it was pretty big in the local news and people were bothering me with questions so we moved out here since it’s quieter.”

Jaskier pauses in his flower arranging. That’s pretty different from what Renfri had said about people not wanting to get a tattoo from a guy who had attacked someone. He wonders which is true or if Geralt told Ciri that version to keep her from feeling bad about his business. He knows which he wants to be true. But what he wants and what he gets are often two different things.

“Ciri.”

They both look up, startled. Geralt is waiting in the door, arms crossed, an impatient look on his face.

“How long have you been there?” Jaskier asks guiltily. Had he heard them talking about what brought them to Oxenfurt?

Geralt ignores him, jerking his chin at Ciri. “You’re late for dinner.”

“Oops,” she says unapologetically. She hops off the counter and waves. “Bye, Jaskier!”

She slips out the door but Geralt stays behind, studying him quietly. After a minute, Jaskier asks, “Something I can do for you?”

Geralt is quiet another moment and then he says, “It was both.”

“Huh?”

“I started losing customers and Ciri was being bothered. Thought a change of scenery would help us both.”

“Oh.” He pauses, realizes that Geralt is actually volunteering information. “ _Oh_. You—you didn’t have to tell me that.”

“Yes I did.”

“I wouldn’t have pushed.”

Geralt gives him an unbelieving look and yeah, okay, based on their past interactions, he can see why Geralt would maybe believe that he would absolutely push for more information.

“Not about something like that,” Jaskier insists. They may never know if he would or not but he likes to think he knows when to let something drop.

“Hmm. Needed to ask you something anyway.”

“Yeah?” Jaskier returns to his arrangement, knowing that it needs to get done so he can drop it off before it gets too late.

“Can you take Ciri to school tomorrow?”

“You can’t do it?” Geralt usually walks Ciri to school for reasons that Jaskier now suspects has to do with what happened in Novigrad though he doesn’t know why Geralt doesn’t also pick her up if he’s that overprotective.

“Customer insisted on coming in early for their last session.”

Jaskier winces sympathetically. He knows all about pushy customers. “Sure, I can take her.” He thinks about teasing Geralt about how only friends ask each other for favors like that but he figures Geralt probably already knows. Besides, he has another idea.

He plucks one of the flowers out of the arrangement, walks out from behind the counter, and presents it to Geralt with a flourish and a bow. “For you, good sir.”

Geralt looks very much like he wants to refuse—honestly, Jaskier completely expects him to refuse. But, much to his surprise, Geralt takes the flower.

“Thanks,” Geralt mutters, hiding his face behind that white curtain of hair. “I—uh—I like the cologne you’re using.”

Jaskier blinks. “Thanks. It’s perfume actually. Smells like roses.”

“It…suits you.”

Geralt is gone, leaving Jaskier standing in the doorway, wondering what the hell just happened.

* * *

There’s a day, not long after that, when Jaskier can’t manage to start his car. The piece of junk is twenty-five years old, a couple months older than Jaskier himself, and it’s been struggling for ages. He would buy a new one but he doesn’t have that kind of money and he can’t afford the paint job he’d need to put A New Leaf’s logo on the side on top of it. He rests his head against the roof of the car, groaning about his bad luck. He hadn’t been planning on opening up the shop today, instead deciding that he would do all of his deliveries in one day. Clearly, that’s not going to happen and the worst part is the arrangements are already made.

“Car trouble?” comes Geralt’s low growl from behind him.

He groans again. “Yep.”

He hears footsteps, Geralt pacing closer. There’s a footstep in his vision, kicking lightly at one of the tires. “You should—”

“I know,” he interrupts. He gets that rant often enough from Renfri. He doesn’t need to hear it again. “But if I had that kind of money, do you think I’d own a flower shop?”

“I think I’m supposed to say no here,” Geralt guesses.

Jaskier grins. “You would be correct.”

A short pause. “Do you want a ride?”

Jaskier looks at him. “Don’t you have customers?” he asks curiously. Geralt’s change in scenery certainly seems to have been good for him. He has a steady stream of customers, enough so that Ciri had mentioned yesterday that Geralt was thinking about having to hire another person. (“He’ll never do it though,” she confides. “He doesn’t like other people that much.”)

“They’ll reschedule,” Geralt says with a casual shrug.

And— _oh_ , Jaskier hadn’t realized how nice that would feel, that Geralt would close his own shop for a day to help him out. He flushes, biting his lip as he looks back down at his heap of junk.

“That would be great,” he says sincerely. “Thank you.”

* * *

Geralt is finally letting him in the parlor now to drop off the morning delivery of flowers and pastries. Jaskier is setting down the morning’s bouquet of Queen Anne’s lace and peonies next to the cookies when Geralt suddenly asks, “So what would you do?”

“Hmm?” Jaskier asks, distracted by the newest picture in the binder: an elaborate phoenix rising from a bright blue flame, painstakingly drawn on someone’s wrist.

“When your car broke down.”

He thinks about it for a moment. “Oh! When I said if I had money, I wouldn’t own the flower shop.”

Geralt nods.

“Probably music,” he says honestly. “I was majoring in music before my mum left me the shop. Dropped out of college when she died. Never had the time to go back.”

“What did you play?”

“Everything I could get my hands on.” He grins ruefully. “But mostly the guitar. I still play sometimes at those open mic nights that bars do.”

Geralt’s eyebrows shoot nearly to his hairline. “In Oxenfurt?”

Jaskier bursts out laughing. “Where someone might recognize me? Absolutely not. In Cidaris, usually.”

“Why not here?”

He could give the flippant answer he gives everyone else. He almost does. But. Geralt is looking at him with those piercing golden eyes and Jaskier finds himself saying, “Because I know the people here. Because I have a terrible need to be liked by everyone I meet and I don’t think I could bear it if I found out I’m not actually as good as I think I am.”

He’s surprised by his own answer—it’s not the kind of answer you give people after all—and Geralt looks just as surprised.

“You didn’t have to tell me,” Geralt says.

No, he didn’t and he could probably use that as leverage later for why Geralt should tell him something personal—Geralt seems to have an innate desire to be fair in all things. He doesn’t. He says, “I thought you deserved the truth.”

* * *

There’s a storm one night a couple weeks later, a bad one. It rains often in England but there are rarely storms like this one. Jaskier spends half the night up, waiting to see if there will be hail that totals his car so he can claim the insurance payout. Unfortunately, there isn’t but when he goes out the next morning, he finds that the wind knocked the store’s sign down from above the door.

He sighs and goes to fetch a ladder.

As he climbs up, sign tucked firmly under his arm, he notices that it looks like there’s another storm coming in, or maybe it’s the same storm back for round two. He isn’t sure which would be better. He shields his eyes and peers at it, wondering if it’s even worth putting the sign back up if it’s just going to be knocked down again.

“Hi, Jaskier!” Ciri greets as she skips out the door of Geralt’s. He grins and waves down at her. She’s really blossomed since she came to Iris Lane, becoming much nicer and more open. As it turns out, she’s incredibly sweet underneath that haughty exterior. Jaskier can see why Geralt’s all but wrapped around her finger. “What are you doing up there?”

“Deciding if I should put the sign back up or not.”

There’s a strong gust of wind, swaying his ladder, and he clutches it like a lifeline though he’s not sure what good holding onto it will do in the event that it falls over.

Ciri looks in the direction he is and hums thoughtfully, sounding so much like Geralt in that moment that Jaskier laughs. “I see what you mean,” she agrees. “You know, Dad could probably put that up for you if you batted your eyelashes at him.”

Jaskier has absolutely no idea what she means and he’s opening his mouth to tell her so when Geralt steps outside and asks, “What are you volunteering me for?”

He promptly shuts his mouth again.

“Jaskier needs help with his sign,” Ciri says, blithely unaware of his inner turmoil. Obligingly, the wind buffets the ladder again and he yelps, grabbing onto the awning instead. It’s probably more stable anyway.

Geralt looks up at him and says, “Hmm.”

God but Jaskier wishes he knew what those hums mean.

“You should probably come down from there,” Geralt adds eventually.

Jaskier completely agrees. No sign is worth risking his life for and it’s definitely a chore that can get taken care of later. He climbs down carefully only to slip on the last step. He yelps again as he topples backward. Fortunately, Geralt is a lot faster than his bulk would make people think and he’s right there, catching Jaskier before he can hit the ground.

Geralt’s hands are big, spanning Jaskier’s waist entirely, and his height is steadying as Jaskier leans back into him. He rests his head on Geralt’s shoulder, staring up at him upside down.

“I’ve got you,” Geralt says, surprisingly warm for someone who still shuts the door in Jaskier’s face half the time.

“Yeah,” Jaskier sighs. “You do.”

He does.

Jaskier thinks about that for a second.

Thinks about the familiar tightening of his stomach.

Geralt has him.

Fuck.

* * *

About once every two weeks, Jaskier has dinner with Renfri and Triss. He, of course, sees them much more often than twice a month. He and Renfri talk on the phone all the time and they Skype nearly as often and he sees Triss every single day from across the street but it’s not the same as their dinners where they set aside everything that has to do with work and just gossip. It’s a lot like the Iris Lane brunches but he doesn’t have to deal with Delphine and he gets to see his sister, which makes it so much better.

The dinners had originally started off just Renfri and Jaskier and then Triss had moved back to Oxenfurt after college and taken over what had been her parents’ bakery so they could retire to the country. Jaskier had taken one look at her and recognized the loneliness in her eyes. He’d seen it far too often in the mirror after he’d given up on his degree and moved back home. He had invited her to dinner with his sister just so that she could feel a little bit more welcome. Renfri had taken one look at curly-haired, sweetly smiling Triss and been positively smitten. Fortunately, Triss had been smitten as well and now, three years later, Triss is as much a part of the family as Jaskier himself is.

Jaskier is as poor a chef as he is a baker so his job is usually to bring drinks, which he does cheerfully. He’s well aware of his own failings in the kitchen. He only has to look at his trash can, overflowing with curry containers, to know that.

Dinners are always on Saturdays because Iris Lane is closed down on Sunday. He and Triss don’t go to the brunch the next morning, instead choosing to get very drunk with Renfri, even though they’re all approaching the age where they can no longer recover as quickly. On this particular Saturday, Renfri tells him she’s making chicken so he picks up a nice white wine and drives over a little earlier than usual so that he can talk to her without Triss hearing him. Some things are meant to be just between siblings and his terrible crush on Geralt is one of them.

“Renfri, it’s _horrible_ ,” he moans as he lets himself into the flat she shares with Triss.

She hums as she adds a little more parmesan to the sauce she’s stirring on the oven. “What’s horrible?”

He slumps down on the table and pillows his head on his arms. “My crush on Geralt.”

“Your…what?” she asks, setting down the spoon so that she can turn to him. He must look really pathetic if he’s managed to make her look away from her sauce. Her garlic parmesan sauce is legendary in Oxenfurt and it requires near constant attention.

But the situation is too terrible to feel bad about drawing her attention so he says again, “My crush on Geralt.”

She turns off the burner and moves to sit across from him. “Explain.”

He tells her. About wanting to make friends with Geralt, about bringing him pastries and flowers, about the first time Geralt had talked to him because Jaskier had brought him a terrible cake, about them becoming something like friends, about all of it. He finishes up by saying, “And it’s terrible because I fell off a ladder yesterday and he caught me like it was nothing, Ren—I’m telling you it was like he was holding a grape and it was _amazing_ and it can’t be amazing because I’m not sure if he’s just tolerating me so I definitely can’t ask for anything more than that. But I want it and I’m just certain that makes me _pathetic_.”

She listens patiently through all of it and then she says, “Wow, that sucks,” and gets back up to turn the stove on again.

See, this is why he doesn’t tell her anything. “You dick,” he says.

“Yep,” she says amiably.

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

“My life is awful and you don’t even _care_ —”

“Of course I care, that’s why I turned off the stove—”

“—and Geralt is never going to talk to me _again_ —”

“—I could have kept stirring the sauce and pretending to listen—”

“—and he’s gorgeous so he can have anyone he wants; why would he want _me_ —”

“Hey!” Renfri says sharply. “You’re someone worth wanting.”

“Aww thanks,” he says, smiling at her. “But it’s still terrible because Geralt is never going to return my feelings.”

The door opens and closes. Triss shouts from where she’s hanging up her sweater on the coat rack, “What feelings?”

“Jas has a crush,” Renfri calls back.

Triss appears in the doorway of the kitchen. “He does?” she asks. “Aww, Jaskier, there’s hope for you yet.”

“I hate you too,” he informs her.

She drops a kiss on the top of his head. “No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” he agrees gloomily.

Triss drops a cupcake in front of him. “Special, just for you since you had such a bad day.”

Renfri snatches it away. “You’ll spoil your appetite.”

“Yes, Mum.” He sticks his tongue out at her. She does the same thing but he still doesn’t get the cupcake back. He turns back to Triss who’s pulling out the other cupcakes and setting them on the counter. He can tell from the book fondant on each one that it’s the earl grey cupcakes, his absolute favorite and one that she rarely makes. “How do you know I had a bad day?”

Triss sneaks him another cupcake while Renfri isn’t looking, patting his head when he throws her a grateful look. “You look particularly down today and that’s not like you.”

“Jas is complaining about his hopeless crush,” Renfri says. She starts to turn and Jaskier stuffs half the cupcake in his mouth. Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “What are you eating?”

“Nothing,” he says, spraying crumbs across the kitchen floor. He finishes chewing and swallows. “Really, Ren, it’s not like I’m going to turn down second helpings of your chicken.”

She sighs aggrievedly but turns back to her sauce.

Triss sits down across from him. “Why is your crush hopeless?” she asks, reaching out with a napkin to brush crumbs from his mouth.

“Because it’s Geralt.”

“Oh honey,” she says sympathetically.

And, yeah, that pretty much sums it up.

* * *

Geralt is an early-morning riser, which absolutely boggles Jaskier’s mind. Admittedly, he is also up with the dawn but that’s definitely not by choice, it’s because he has to be so that he can open up the store. Geralt, on the other hand, is the kind of person who wants to wake up early so that he can go work out.

He passes by A New Leaf on one of his runs while Jaskier is out front sweeping the sidewalk and pauses.

“Morning, Geralt,” Jaskier says pleasantly. “Good run?”

Geralt grunts. “Wanted to give you this. So that the ants stop getting into the cupcakes,” he mutters, ducking his head. Jaskier can’t be sure because Geralt’s face is hidden behind his white hair but he thinks the tips of his ears might be a little pink. He’s so stunned that it takes him a moment to realize that Geralt is trying to hand something to him.

He holds out his hand and Geralt drops something small and metallic into it before running off. Slowly, Jaskier looks down at the key in his hand.

“Oh,” he whispers, feeling something warm unfurl in his chest.

* * *

Jaskier starts using the key to let himself into Geralt’s shop in the morning while Geralt is out and Ciri is still asleep. He places the latest box of cupcakes on the desk and then changes out the flowers, taking the time to run back to A New Leaf to throw the old ones out in the dumpster in the alley behind his shop. When he walks back into the parlor, he realizes that Roach, Geralt’s brown and white Siamese, is stretched out on the counter.

He scratches the cat behind her ears. She swats lazily at him but her claws are still sheathed so he doesn’t take it as a deterrent. “Does this mean Ciri is up?” he asks.

Predictably, Roach doesn’t answer.

The door opens behind him. “Morning, Jas,” he hears Geralt say.

Jaskier doesn’t blush at the nickname. He _doesn’t_.

“You smell nice,” Geralt says, reaching over his shoulder to snag a cupcake.

This is the moment where he’s supposed to say _thank you_. But this is Jaskier so instead, paralyzed by the fact that Geralt is pressing up behind him, blurts out, “You don’t.” And then he wants to bang his head against the desk.

Great flirting, Jas, really A+ work.

“Hmm,” Geralt says. He plucks one of the flowers—forget-me-not’s—from the bouquet and twirls it between his fingers.

“For Ciri?” Jaskier asks absently, busy arranging the flowers. It’s not really necessary as he’d arranged them before bringing the bouquet over but things do get shifted during delivery so, if he can, he always likes to double check the arrangement.

“No.” Geralt grabs another flower. “That one is for Ciri. _This_ one is for you.” He tucks it behind Jaskier’s ear.

Jaskier goes still as Geralt’s fingers gently caress the shell of his ear, trailing down to the lobe before he steps away. He has no idea what his face looks like but his voice comes out as a squeak when he says, “Thank you.”

The corners of Geralt’s mouth twitch. “Hmm.”

* * *

He brings his guitar over one morning. Jaskier doesn’t play much anymore except when he plays for open mic night but Geralt had seemed genuinely interested in hearing him play—or well, he had seemed as interested as someone as taciturn as Geralt can be.

Geralt isn’t there when he drops off the new flowers—heather and harebell—so he slings the guitar over his shoulder and tunes it, settling down on the counter with his legs crossed over each other. When he’s satisfied with the sound, he starts to hum as he plays. He occasionally writes songs, though nothing like what he used to write, but he doesn’t feel like playing something original today so he abruptly changes songs.

_Go north, go north with wings on your feet_

_Go north with the wind where the three rivers meet_

_There’s a clearing of sorts in the circle of trees_

_Where the wild constellations shine one, two, and three_

_Look all around you and see_

_Deep in the forest, there dragons will be_

The door opens and Geralt walks in. Jaskier glances up at him but he doesn’t stop playing, too immersed in the music. He’s always been like this. Music is his first love, the first thing that had drawn him in and consumed him. He doesn’t regret what brought him to A New Leaf but he still misses the thrill that used to run through him every time he stepped onto the stage at uni.

_They come from the earth, yes, they come from the stone_

_The icy cold north, that’s where they call home_

_Go where the mountain kisses the sea_

_Better be brave, far braver than me_

_Look all around you and see_

_Deep in the forest, there dragons will be_

Geralt doesn’t stop him, just leans back against the wall and listens with his eyes closed. Jaskier thinks he falls a little more in love with him for that. Even Renfri interrupts him when she wants to talk about something

_If a dragon should find you, you might ought to run_

_No one has lived through such a run in, not one_

_So if you hear a roar, goodness sake, leave them be_

_Up where you find them wild and free_

_Look all around you and see_

_Deep in the forest, there dragons will be_

_Look all around you, you won’t find me_

He finishes with another couple chords and stills his fingers. “What did you think?” he asks. “Three words or less.” His fingers twitch nervously, betraying how anxious he really is. He wants Geralt to like his music, like _him._

Geralt pushes off the wall and walks closer to him. “They’re not real.”

Jaskier frowns. “Well of course they’re not real. It’s a folk song.”

“Always thought you’d sing about real things.”

“Like those boy bands? You thought you’d compare me to one of those?” He scoffs. “Geralt, those songs are fluff, interchangeable with a thousand other songs. I want to sing about death and destiny, heroics and heartbreaks.”

Geralt grunts and reaches past him to grab one of the harebells. “Whatever it is you’re singing, it’s good.”

“Really?” Jaskier asks, a flood of relief making his question more of a gasp.

“I’m not repeating it,” Geralt says but he tucks the flower into one of Jaskier’s shirt pockets, fingers brushing against his chest, so he thinks that’s probably the next best thing.

* * *

It goes on like that. Jaskier brings flowers and Geralt always, _always_ , removes two: one for Ciri and one for Jaskier. Jaskier plays music almost every day and Geralt never compliments him again but he always stops whatever he’s doing to listen. Jaskier brings cupcakes or whatever else Triss has seen fit to make and Geralt takes one for himself and then pushes the box back towards Jaskier, saying that he knows he has a sweet tooth so would he please just take one?

It makes Jaskier dizzy and confused and his poor heart can’t take much more of this but he doesn’t want to ask Geralt to stop. It’s too—too _lovely_ and he wants, wants something that he can’t ask for, but he wants it anyway and this is the closest he can get to it. Jaskier is greedy. He’ll take whatever scraps of affection Geralt sees fit to toss his way.

And then there’s the day when Jaskier gets a large shipment of roses for a special order that gets cancelled because of course it does, fucking rich people. He doesn’t know what to do with all these roses so he takes a bunch of them over to Geralt. It’s probably inappropriate but they’re pink so hopefully his friend won’t see too much into it.

But Geralt still takes one, eyeing it intently like there’s something printed on the petals that he’s reading, and then he slowly threads the stem into the hair behind Jaskier’s ear. His hand traces down the line of Jaskier’s cheek, down to his chin. The two are almost of the same height but Jaskier is slouched against the counter and Geralt is all but leaning up against him. It puts him a few inches taller than Jaskier so when Geralt’s fingers press against his chin, it tips his head up so that he can look into Geralt’s eyes.

He trembles as Geralt’s breath softly puffs against his lips. “Geralt,” he whispers.

“Ciri’s spending the night at a friend’s house,” Geralt murmurs. “Come over for dinner.”

He should say no, should protect his heart. But he nods, the words caught in his throat. He’s never had a lick of self-preservation anyway.

* * *

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting when he goes to Geralt’s for dinner. He’s been upstairs once before, when he took Ciri to school. The flat is nice, as clean as the shop downstairs though less sterile. There’s a lot of muted tones though there are a few splashes of color—a patchwork quilt thrown over the back of the couch, a set of child’s drawings framed in the dining room, throw pillows in the window seat. It feels very Geralt and Ciri.

Jaskier knocks on the door, shifting from one foot to the other anxiously. He doesn’t know what this is, if it’s dinner between friends or…something more like Geralt had seemed to suggest this morning. He has a six-pack of Coke in his right hand because Geralt doesn’t drink now that he has Ciri, a fact that Jaskier had teased out of him a few weeks ago after he’d invited him out for drinks with Renfri and Triss. Geralt had flatly turned him down, which he’d taken to mean as not being interested in him.

But then, this morning…

He’s working himself up into a panic, overthinking what this all might mean, and he’s just getting ready to turn around and leave when the door swings open. “You’re on time,” Geralt says.

He sounds as unreadable either but Jaskier still says, “No need to sound surprised. I’m on time quite a lot.”

With his left hand, he holds out the bouquet of the same pink roses he’d taken to the shop in the morning. Well, he has to get rid of them somehow and Geralt might not understand what exactly they mean but he can’t help but give them to him anyway. Jaskier has always worn his heart on his sleeve, even when he has to let his flowers speak for him.

Geralt smiles faintly and takes them. “Thanks.”

He holds up the Coke. “Brought this too. Thought it might be an acceptable offering. Trust me, you don’t want me bringing anything I cooked.”

“If it’s anything like your baking, I’m sure I don’t,” Geralt says evenly, taking the drinks from Jaskier’s hands as well though he hadn’t meant for him to take both flowers and Coke. He lets Jaskier in and disappears into the kitchen where something that smells amazing and sort of garlicky is cooking.

Jaskier doesn’t follow him, instead choosing to look around the living room interestedly. The last time he’d been up here, the flat didn’t seem quite like a home but now Ciri’s schoolbooks are strewn across the coffee table, the sofa is covered in cat hair with a very indolent Roach sprawled across two of the cushions, and one of the bookshelves is littered with pictures of Ciri, mostly selfies of her and her friends but there’s a couple of her and some of the other shopkeepers—he even sees himself in a couple—as well as a few that feature a much younger Ciri and a pretty blonde woman who looks so much like Ciri that she can only be her mother and then another few with Ciri and a stunning black-haired woman with the most unusual violet eyes. Geralt is in those photos as well, never looking at the camera, always at the woman, and Jaskier feels something uncomfortably like jealousy worm its way into his stomach.

He turns away and glances at the books on the coffee table, mostly Ciri’s he thinks judging by the titles— _Essential Science_ , _Hamlet, Discovering Mathematics_ —but there’s one that intrigues him, mostly because it’s one he has in his own bookshelf: _Language of Flowers_.

Why does Geralt have a book on flower language?

He can spot a couple annotations in the book and he moves closer to pick it up, only for Geralt to say, “That’s Ciri’s. School project.”

Jaskier jumps, startled. He hadn’t realized Geralt had left the kitchen. “Ciri has a school project on flower language? Why didn’t she tell me? I know I don’t use it much in my own arrangements but I do know it.”

Geralt pauses in drying his hands on a towel. “You…don’t use it?”

“Of course not,” Jaskier huffs. “It’s a ridiculous idea. Flowers don’t bloom year-round and sometimes the flowers you’d use to say a particular message wouldn’t look good together or you need something else—like greenery. You _always_ need more greenery. Flower language is a completely fanciful notion and that’s coming from me so you know it’s true. I use what’s in bloom and what I have on hand. Like those roses I brought to you today. I had them for an order that ended up being cancelled and I don’t sell them enough to keep them so I gave them to you.”

Geralt is quiet for a bit. Then, “Fuck.”

He frowns. That’s an odd reaction. Geralt is far less prone to flights of fancy than Jaskier is so he can’t imagine why he would be disappointed to find out Jaskier doesn’t use flower language unless a customer insists on it.

Before he can ask what’s wrong, Geralt says, “Dinner’s ready,” and motions him into the dining room.

The dining room is lit with candles and the roses are arranged in a lovely crystal vase as a centerpiece. “That’s nice,” Jaskier coos. “Ciri must love this. My mum used to make my sister and I eat in the kitchen at the counter. I think I can count on one hand the number of times we used the table.”

Geralt pauses in pulling a chair out. “Huh.”

Jaskier sits across from him, completely nonplussed when Geralt looks frustrated. After a moment, Geralt sits down as well though his movements are jerky. Jaskier wonders if he’s done something wrong although he can’t imagine what.

Despite the awkward beginning, dinner ends up being very nice. They talk—or rather Jaskier talks and Geralt grunts and hums and occasionally asks a question. Actually, for Geralt, there are quite a few more questions than he usually offers up in their conversations. He even answers a few of Jaskier’s questions and that’s particularly nice as he gets to learn more about the man he’s rapidly falling in love with. And even when Geralt isn’t talking, Jaskier gets the impression that he’s listening intently to everything Jaskier says. It’s flattering and heady as he’s often felt that Geralt doesn’t really listen to him.

But this—with Geralt’s full attention on him and the conversation that feels more like a conversation than a monologue is amazing. Jaskier wants to experience it every day of his life, wants to know more about Geralt growing up an orphan, raised by his uncle with his two cousins, about what drew him to becoming a tattoo artist, about adopting Ciri. He wants to know everything.

It’s both wonderful and terrible all at once, because he wants everything but he knows he can’t have it but oh how he _wants_.

Eventually, the conversation starts to wind down and Jaskier, desperate to come up with something so that he doesn’t have to leave, asks as he gestures back at the bookshelf, “Who’s the woman in the pictures?”

Geralt pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. “Pavetta. Ciri’s mum.”

Jaskier throws him an exasperated look. “I figured that out for myself, thanks. I meant the other woman.”

“That’s my—uh—” Geralt stumbles over his words, looking awkward. “—Um—Yen.”

Jaskier goes cold. He can fill in the words easily enough. _That’s my Yen_. He doesn’t know exactly what this Yen means to Geralt but it’s suddenly very obvious to him, as he thinks about the way Geralt had always been looking at her in the photos like she was the only thing he would ever want, that she means a lot, probably more than Jaskier ever will.

He puts his napkin down next to his plate. “Thank you for a great evening. We’ll have to do it again sometime,” he says awkwardly as he stands.

Geralt stands as well. “Jas—”

“See you tomorrow morning?” he asks, backing out of the room toward the door. “You should probably expect roses again. It really was a very large order.”

“Jas, wait,” Geralt says and Jaskier would almost call him desperate if he didn’t know any better. But he does know better and so he just calls it his brain playing tricks on him.

He gets one hand on the doorknob before Geralt is on him, boxing him in against the door. “Geralt,” he says quietly and then stops. What is he going to say? Ask Geralt to let him leave so he can lick his wounds in peace? He’s not that pathetic.

Geralt is watching him, eyes dark and intense, and Jaskier—he isn’t so pathetic as to let Geralt know exactly what he feels but apparently he’s just pathetic enough to hook his hands around Geralt’s neck and pull him down for a kiss.

He slants his mouth over Geralt’s and kisses him with everything he has, tongue darting out to lick the seam of his lips, fingers toying with the short hairs at Geralt’s nape. Geralt is frozen for half a second, just long enough to start wondering if he’s messed up everything between them, and then his hands fit themselves at Jaskier’s waist like they were made to go there and his mouth opens.

In an instant, Jaskier goes from the one kissing to the one being kissed and he is _kissed_. Thoroughly and passionately, Geralt pressing him back into the door so hard that he thinks there might be a permanent imprint of his body in the wood. Geralt licks into his mouth, traces along the back of his teeth, explores every inch of him. Jaskier moans. He’s always liked being kissed. It’s his favorite part of sex and being kissed well makes him stiffer than just about anything else and Geralt—Geralt might as well have gotten his degree in kissing for how easily he takes Jaskier apart with just his mouth.

He is kissed and kissed and _kissed_. It’s perfect. It’s magic. It’s everything that he never thought he would get to have, never dreamed he could ask for.

Jaskier gets hard so fast he nearly goes dizzy with how quickly his blood leaves his brain. His hands leave Geralt’s neck, stroke across his shoulders and down to his biceps, where he holds on to steady himself.

Geralt groans, “Jas,” before pulling his mouth away to trail kiss down the line of his jaw, up to his ear. He sucks a bruise into the sensitive skin beneath his ear, the spot that no one else has ever found so quickly. Jaskier’s hips jerk into Geralt’s, bringing the line of his cock against the bulge in Geralt’s pants. He moans again; Geralt’s hands tighten on his waist and _shove_ him back into the door, thigh fitting between his legs.

“Sing so sweetly with your guitar,” Geralt growls into his ear. “Gonna sing for me now, little lark?”

Jaskier sobs, feeling overwhelmed without quite knowing how he got to this point, consumed by Geralt’s hands on his waist, his lips on his throat, his hips rolling against Jaskier’s, urging him to ride his thigh. He can’t remember the last time he got off against someone’s thigh but it’s going to happen now, he just knows it.

“Come on, Jas.” Geralt bites down on his throat and Jaskier throws his head back. “Tell me how you feel.”

“ _Good_ ,” he gasps, cock grinding against Geralt’s thigh. He’s sensitive, ready to come at a moment’s word. Geralt bites him again; he whines loudly, desperately, with all the neediness he feels.

“Sweet little lark,” Geralt croons, laving his tongue over the spot he’d bit. His hands hold Jaskier’s twitching hips still so he can push his thigh against the hard line of his cock. “Come for me.”

Jaskier does, spilling into his pants with a cry, forced still by Geralt’s strong grip. Vaguely, he feels Geralt’s hips shove against him twice before he groans loudly, forehead pressing into Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier’s fingers loosen their grip on Geralt’s arms so he can raise his hands to his head, running through Geralt’s hair, just as soft as he’s always imagined it would be.

“Little lark,” Geralt murmurs. “Jas.” He noses at Jaskier’s sensitive throat, places a delicate kiss under his jaw. “Come see me tomorrow morning.”

Jaskier is floating, struck dumb by his incredible orgasm and Geralt’s gentle words. “Okay,” he says before he can think better of it.

* * *

Renfri texts him the next morning when he’s putting the finishing touches on the bouquet before heading over to Geralt’s. He takes one look at the text— _help_ —and calls her.

“Ren,” he says as soon as she picks up. “If you’ve gotten yourself kidnapped, I’m not coming to help.”

She doesn’t even respond to his teasing, which does more to convince him that something is truly wrong than her text does. “Triss fell down the stairs this morning, broke her ankle in three places,” she says hurriedly. “I’m at the hospital right now. They’re prepping her for surgery, said she’ll need two plates put in to help the bones heal properly.”

Jaskier grabs his coat. “What do you need from me?” he asks, heading out the door. “Do you want me at the hospital?”

“Can you run by the flat? We left in a hurry. I didn’t have time to grab anything.”

“Anything specific or just a couple sweaters and the like?”

He starts up the car, grateful that Geralt had insisted on him taking it to a mechanic. The mechanic had told him he probably needed to start looking into a new car but he could keep this one running a little longer. He puts the phone on speaker and pulls out of the driveway. As he drives off, he thinks he catches sight of Geralt waiting in the lobby of the tattoo parlor but he drives by too quickly to be certain and anyway, Geralt almost never waits for him in the mornings. He can’t imagine why he’d be waiting now.

Just in case though, he’ll text him once he gets to the hospital to let him know what’s going on.

“There’s a tablet next to my bed,” Renfri says. She sounds a little bit calmer now that she’s got a plan and someone to lean on but then she’s always been like that. “It’s got my current case file. Can you bring that, Triss’s pink sweater on the door of the closet, and her laptop? Oh and the chargers, we probably need those too.”

“Can do,” he says cheerfully. He’s worried too, of course he is, but Ren needs someone to be strong for her right now and that’s definitely something Jaskier can be. “Anything else?”

“That should be it for now but it would be great if you’d be willing to stick around.”

“Of course,” he promises. She sounds exhausted, not that he can blame her. “And if you think of anything else, either while I’m on the way or at the flat, just let me know.”

“Thanks, Jas,” she says.

“You wanna keep talking?”

She thinks about it. “No but maybe you could stay on the line?”

“Yep.” He pulls up next to her building and turns the car off. As he walks in, he shoots off a quick text to Francesca to let her know that both his and Triss’s shops would be closed down for at least today. She texts him back to ask if they need anything, which is sweet of her. He lets her know that he’ll keep her updated.

By the time Jaskier gets to the hospital, Triss has already been wheeled in for surgery. He sits down next to Renfri, silently passing her the items she’d requested. Most of it goes in the chair on her other side but she keeps the sweater in her lap, twisting it around her hands. After a moment, she leans over to rest her head on Jaskier’s shoulder, sighing deeply.

Renfri isn’t a crier so he isn’t surprised by her dry cheeks but he _is_ worried by the anguished expression in her eyes.

“What’s going on?” he asks her softly. “I thought you said the doctors think she’ll be okay.”

“It’s going to be months before she can walk again,” Renfri whispers. “They said she’ll probably always walk with a limp. How is she going to keep the bakery running?”

Oh. He should have known that that would be what has her so worried. “We’ll find her someone to help,” he says firmly. “Not me. I’m rubbish at baking.”

Renfri cracks a smile at that, sending a wave of relief through him.

“Iris Lane won’t just kick her out because she got injured. We take better care of our own than that. We’ll send out a hiring notice and in the meantime, I’m sure we can all work together to pay the rent on the shop. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

She doesn’t look fully convinced but she also doesn’t disagree with him. Renfri can argue about anything so the fact that she’s quiet now tells him just how tired she is. He lets her rest, head drooping against his shoulder, promising that he’ll stay awake for the return of the doctors. She’s had a stressful morning, exacerbated by her lack of sleep. Ren’s never been much of an early riser and Triss is up with the birds for her bakery. He’s sure she’s completely drained. He’s not surprised at all when she falls right asleep, waking only when the doctor comes out to tell them that Triss has been moved into a private room.

He helps her to Triss’s room, both settling down in the chairs beside the bed. Renfri picks up Triss’s hand in hers, running her thumb over it gently. Jaskier watches her, mesmerized by the back and forth motion.

“I think you’re right,” he confesses. “I think I’m lonely or at least, lonelier than I thought.”

Renfri watches him with big, dark eyes and then smiles ruefully. “Pankratz family curse,” she says. “To insist that we don’t need anyone until we suddenly do.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, exhaling slowly. “I thought I was okay with those nights when I left Oxenfurt, falling a little in love with everyone I meet, but—” He steals another look at Triss’s fingers interlaced with Renfri’s. “I want what you have.”

“What about that tattoo artist of yours?” she asks.

“I know you know his name is Geralt.”

She shrugs. She’s still not sold on Geralt even though he’s told her the real reason behind why he and Ciri moved to Oxenfurt.

He doesn’t want to tell her about last night, not when he hasn’t yet talked to Geralt about it. Instead, he says, “I think he’s like me. He doesn’t want to admit that he needs someone.”

* * *

Triss wakes up sometime in the early afternoon and tells him that he didn’t need to be there though he can tell she’s grateful. He stays for another couple hours, winds up picking up dinner for them, and eventually leaves once visiting hours are over. He gets home late that night and promptly falls into bed, scarcely remembering to plug his phone in before he falls asleep.

By the time he wakes up the next morning, he’s feeling much more rested. He checks in with Renfri to make sure they don’t need anything—Triss is apparently being sent home later in the morning—and then heads downstairs. The flowers strewn across the counter remind him that he was supposed to go over to Geralt’s yesterday to talk.

“Oops,” he mutters to himself. He’d meant to text him at the hospital to let him know what had happened but he’d been so caught up in Renfri that he’d forgotten all about it. Well, he figures he’ll apologize when he heads over in a couple minutes.

The flowers are a complete wash. He hadn’t had the chance to put them in water before he’d left so they’re wilted and browning. Jaskier swipes them into the trash and starts a new bouquet, still pink roses but he wants them to mean something this time instead of just getting rid of them because he had too many. They’d had an amazing evening two nights ago and he thinks, maybe, that there could be a future for them. As he always tells his customers, the best way to kick off a happy future is with pink roses.

He ends up selecting a gold ribbon the same unique shade as Geralt’s eyes to tie around them. “That looks good, right?” he asks himself anxiously, not that he has any answer for himself.

He walks outside right as Geralt’s door opens. For a moment, he brightens up, thinking that Geralt is coming over to see him. Then he sees the person walking through the door and immediately ducks back into the shadow of his own doorway.

It’s the woman from the pictures, the one with the violet eyes. What had Geralt called her?

 _That’s my Yen_.

Yen from the pictures whom Geralt hadn’t been able to tear his eyes from even for a photo. Yen who looks beautiful and elegant and stylish. Jaskier catches a glimpse of himself in the reflection off the window. His hair is still messy from sleep and there are deep circles under his eyes from the stress of yesterday. He’s wearing pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, too excited to bother changing into actual clothes. He can’t compete with the beautiful woman standing next to Geralt when he’s dressed like this.

He couldn’t compete with her anyway.

She’s leaving in the morning, early too, and it’s obvious—so _obvious_ —what’s going on here. He wonders if Geralt is the one who called her last night or if she showed up on his doorstep. Whatever it is, he opened the door for _her_ , something that had taken him months to do for Jaskier. He doesn’t know what happened between him and Geralt two nights ago, if it was just blowing off some steam or waiting for Yen to come back or what, but it’s clear just from the smile on Geralt’s face—he _never_ smiles around Jaskier—that it’s nothing compared to what he feels for Yen.

“You could always come back to Novigrad,” Yen is saying in what Jaskier thinks is a hopeful tone. She leans up on her toes and kisses Geralt’s cheek. “I get questions all the time about what happened to you.”

Geralt shrugs. “You know why I left. That hasn’t changed.”

It sounds like an argument that they’ve had before but there’s no malice to it, just a wistful sort of hope.

“Geralt, look at this place!” Yen says, gesturing toward the row of shops. “You can’t honestly say that you belong here.”

Jaskier’s known from the beginning that Geralt wouldn’t have left Novigrad if he had any other choice but he’s always hoped that he would come to love Oxenfurt just as much. He’s never wanted to ask, too afraid to hear the answer. Now, it seems he’ll be forced to hear it whether he likes it or not.

“No,” Geralt agrees. “I don’t.”

Oh.

That’s—

That’s just—just great.

He turns around and goes back inside.

* * *

The thing is, he doesn’t know why he’s so surprised.

He has always known that he isn’t enough for Geralt. He’s too much, too loud, too out there. Two nights ago must have been a fluke, born out of loneliness and desperation. It’ll never happen again, _can_ never happen again, not now that Geralt has his Yen again. Geralt is destined for better things than Jaskier, bigger things than Oxenfurt. He’s destined for fame for his art and cities like Novigrad and beautiful women like Pavetta and Yen. He said it himself: he doesn’t belong here in Oxenfurt.

Not like Jaskier. Jaskier is a washed-up florist with dreams of becoming a musician that he’d given up because he loved the street too much to see it die along with A New Leaf. Jaskier is clumsiness and awkwardness who grew up in Oxenfurt and thinks a night out is going to the next largest town where he can’t even own up to the fact that he wrote most of the songs he sings. Jaskier is brown hair and blue eyes, brilliantly blue, yes, but still just blue. They’re not _violet_.

The worst part is, he can’t even blame Geralt. If he had been given a choice between him and Yen, he would have chosen Yen too. He’d probably messed it up for himself anyway. He hadn’t called Geralt like he’d meant to, hadn’t gone over to the shop. No wonder Geralt had gone looking for someone else.

He throws the flowers in the trash, no point in bringing them over to Geralt’s anymore. The shop is still closed so he puts a sign on the door letting his regulars know that he’s staying closed until further notice and goes upstairs to wallow.

* * *

Triss texts him that afternoon.

_Francesca says your shop is still closed. What’s that about?_

Jaskier looks at it for a long moment. His vision is still blurry from long hours of crying, his heart broken irrevocably. He fears it shall never mend again.

So maybe he’s being just a little overdramatic but he is truly hurt. He’d thought that what he had with Geralt was something special, something to be treasured, something that equally mattered to both of them. It had absolutely gutted him to realize that Geralt had had someone else over last night, someone that he hadn’t seen fit to mention to him until the night of their ill-fated tryst; hurt to find out that Geralt had moved on so quickly, that he hadn’t meant very much to him at all.

He wants to pour his heart out to his closest friend (after Renfri, of course) but she just broke her ankle. She’s recovering from surgery; what right does he have to put his troubles on her shoulders?

He texts her back, _I’m fine_.

The phone rings, the caller ID reading _Renfri_. He sighs and answers it. “Something wrong?” he asks, trying hard not to sound as congested as his nose feels.

“Come over,” Renfri demands. “We’ll eat ice cream and talk about how shitty boys are.”

“How do you know I’m having boy trouble?” he asks warily.

She snorts. “I know you and after the conversation we had yesterday? It’s boy trouble. Come over.”

He goes, picking up cheap boxed wine on the way. Triss won’t be able to have any but he will and when he’s feeling this miserable, that’s all that really matters.

Sometimes, he loves his sister. Well, he loves his sister all the time but sometimes, he _really_ loves her. Times like right now when he’s feeling lousy and heartbroken. Renfri isn’t much of an empathetic sort, she’s always been too pragmatic for that, but sometimes, she knows exactly the right thing to say to her softhearted baby brother.

Things like the unspoken “I know you well enough to know what broke your heart.”

Renfri is waiting for him when he lets himself in, folding him into a hug as soon as he steps through the door. Even though they’re nearly the same height and it’s a little awkward, she forces his head down to rest on her shoulder. She guides him back to one of the armchairs in her living room—Triss resting on the only couch—and sits them both down in it. It’s a slightly uncomfortable fit but they make it work, tangling their limbs up together until it’s nearly perfect.

“Tell me what happened,” she orders though not unkindly.

“I fucked Geralt two nights ago,” he admits miserably. Renfri’s breath hitches and Triss sighs. “Sort of. He asked me over for dinner cause Ciri was out and then afterward, he pressed me up against the door and—”

“I don’t need to hear the rest,” Renfri says hastily.

Jaskier’s too sad to even smile. “It was really great. I was supposed to meet up with him yesterday morning but you needed me and I forgot to call him and he went out and found someone else!” he wails. “He’s in love with her.”

Renfri frowns doubtfully. “Hmm,” she says, reminding Jaskier so much of Geralt that it hurts. “How do you know that?”

“He has pictures of her on his bookshelves.” He sighs sadly, burrowing against Renfri’s shoulder. “If you could have seen the way he looked at her.” He chokes on another sob. “I really liked him, you know.”

“Oh, Jas,” she says softly, kissing the top of his head.

A scrap of a tune and a couple words float across his mind and he sings it under his breath as Renfri gently rocks him.

_I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting._

* * *

The next morning, he decides that it’s probably best that he not see Geralt for a couple days—or maybe weeks—while his heart mends so Jaskier decides not to bring flowers over in the mornings while he’s recovering. After all, he doesn’t want Yen to get the wrong impression. He’s not trying to steal her man away. He might have done his fair share of homewrecking in college but he’s not that kind of person anymore. Well—he cocks his head, thinking about the last time he was in Cidaris and the lovely young man who had flirted with him all night, complimented him on his song, and then taken him to the nearest hotel. It hadn’t been _Jaskier’s_ fault that the man hadn’t worn his wedding ring! What had his wife expected him to do, _ask_?

Okay, so maybe he _is_ that kind of person, but not when he’s in love!

The point is, he figures that he needs to maintain his distance. He’s already halfway in love with Geralt as it is. A few more sweet words, another couple of long looks into those golden eyes, and he’ll tumble all the way. And that would be bad. Really bad. Astronomically bad, even. No, it’s best that he stay as far away from Geralt as he possibly can.

Naturally, this works for exactly half a day, right up until he’s taking his lunch break sitting on the floor behind the counter. The bell above the door jingles and he stifles a groan. There’s a sign on the door that says he takes his break at this time. Honestly can’t this person read? Just because he doesn’t bother locking the door during his lunch break doesn’t mean that it’s okay to come inside, especially when there’s a sign on the door that tells visitors the shop isn’t open during this hour. Probably Americans, he figures.

He decides to stay quiet, hoping that they’ll think he’s not here and leave. It’s worked in the past. Of course, that person had also stolen a rather expensive bouquet but at least Jaskier hadn’t been bothered.

One must look on the bright side during times like these.

 _Please go away_ , he thinks. _Go away, go away, go away, go—_

Whoever it is clears their throat.

No such luck then. Clearly the gods of customer service aren’t on his side today.

He fixes his best customer service smile onto his face and pops up, intending on politely telling the person to fuck off so he can finish his lunch. Instead, he’s greeted with worried golden eyes.

Ah.

So Geralt has decided to come and see him instead. Well, there goes his masterful plan of avoiding Geralt until things look rosier and his heart has healed. In fact, upon seeing the love of his life, his heart very kindly decides to splinter into more pieces.

Geralt looks…good. Of course, he always looks good but he looks particularly nice today, his hair combed back so his face is visible, wearing a nice shirt with the sleeves rolled up so Jaskier can ogle at his forearms—well, that might actually be unintentional on Geralt’s part. He’s sure that if Geralt knew how much Jaskier likes to look at his arms, he would promptly stop rolling his sleeves up. And that would be a shame so Jaskier drags his eyes away from the distracting sight and to his face.

Geralt’s eyes are worried and for a moment, Jaskier’s heart soars, but then he notices that his cheeks are flushed like he’s been out running but he smells—he smells amazing actually so he couldn’t have been exercising. Or—wait—his lips are red and a little swollen like they’ve been bitten recently. Jaskier’s heart sinks. He’s been exercising but it must have been with Yen. He’d be willing to bet that whatever it is that Geralt smells like, it’s probably her perfume. He’s probably here to buy her flowers, maybe even pink roses like the ones Jaskier had planned to give him yesterday.

He blinks back a sudden rush of tears. “Geralt!” he says, affecting a tone of airy cheer. Geralt doesn’t need to know how upset he is.

“What happened?”

So that didn’t work then.

“What do you mean?” he asks carefully.

“Two days ago, we were going to meet up,” Geralt says, frowning. His brow furrows when he’s concerned and that probably shouldn’t be as adorable to Jaskier as it is, considering how unattainable Geralt is, but there you have it. “You came tearing out of here and then Triss’s shop never opened up.”

“Oh!” Jaskier says, relieved beyond belief that Geralt doesn’t know how he feels. “Triss broke her ankle. She needed surgery but she’s doing better now. Well, she broke her ankle and she’s laid up on the couch for the next couple weeks, but she’s on lots of painkillers so she’s set. Well, she needs to find someone to run the shop until she can go back to work but I’m sure it’ll work out.”

“If she needs someone, Yen—I mentioned her at dinner—owns a bakery in Novigrad. She’s selling it and moving out here. I could ask if she’ll help Triss out,” Geralt says.

Of course Yen is moving to Oxenfurt.

“That’s great,” Jaskier lies blithely. “I’ll let Triss know.” He looks for a way to change the subject and lands on, “So how is Yen anyway?”

He’s a glutton for punishment.

“I saw her leaving your place yesterday.”

Geralt, much to his surprise, goes bright red. He reaches up to rub the back of his neck sheepishly. “You saw that?” he asks.

“Yeah, I was going to apologize I couldn’t drop off the cupcakes the day before,” he says. How has he never realized how much he resembles an unwanted alley cat, leaving bloody gifts for the person who feeds him? “She sounded nice.”

“You’re sure you saw _Yen_?” Geralt asks, eyes twinkling so Jaskier knows it’s a joke.

“Sounds like she really cares for you,” he says quietly.

Geralt smiles fondly. “She does.”

Jaskier’s heart breaks neatly in two. “Right,” he manages to choke out. “So, obviously, dinner was a mistake.”

“A mistake?”

“Um, so I’m gonna let you get back to her—”

“Wait—”

“Oh. Sorry. You probably wanted to get her flowers, didn’t you?”

“Jas—”

“Roses? If you can give me a minute, I can get those arranged.” His phone lights up with a call from Renfri and he gratefully seizes it. He’s never been so glad to hear from her in his life. “Actually, sorry, it’s my sister. She’s dating Triss, you know? I should probably get this.”

He walks out from behind the counter, speed-walking for the door that leads upstairs. “She might need something, you know how it is.”

“Can you—”

It takes him two tries to get the door open. “I’ll bring the roses over tonight; don’t worry about the charge. Friends and family discount, you know? Oh and can you flip the closed sign on your way out?”

“Jaskier!”

He closes the door behind him and sobs.

* * *

His sleep that night is troubled, marked with dreams of Geralt pinning him against the door melting into nightmares of Yen in his place. He’s not sure he manages to get more than an hour’s worth of actual sleep, finally giving up sometime before dawn.

He pulls out his guitar, thinking of the song he’d been singing at Renfri’s flat two days ago. Jaskier doesn’t much write his own songs anymore. His professors, when he had still been in school, had called his songs uninspired, his lyrics trite and the melodies basic. At the time, he had shrugged off their comments, convinced that _someone_ out there would love his songs. Besides, _he_ had loved them and isn’t that all that matters? But after he’d had to give up on his dreams, drop out of college, so he could focus on the shop, he’d started to wonder if he’d ever really had what it takes or if he’d always been doomed to failure.

“What am I doing?” he mutters. Writing songs because he’s heartbroken is the most cliché thing he can possibly imagine and Jaskier has always strived to be anything but cliché.

But he can picture Yen in his mind’s eye, luring Geralt away, back to Novigrad, back to where he’d been betrayed by his supposed fans and the lyrics come as easy as breathing.

_The fairer sex, they often call it_

_But her love’s as unfair as a crook_

_It steals all my reason_

_Commits every treason_

_Of logic, with naught but a look_

He thinks of that look in her eyes as she said, “You can’t honestly think you belong here,” of the way Geralt had looked when she’d said it. He thinks of storms barreling in, knocking his sign loose, and the way Geralt had held him when he’d fallen from a ladder.

_A storm breaking on the horizon_

_Of longing and heartache and lust_

_She’s always bad news_

_It’s always lose, lose_

_So tell me love, tell me love_

_How is that just?_

He thinks about Geralt pressing him to the door, kissing him like he’s something precious, something to be treasured, and about someone murmuring in his ear, “Little lark.”

_But the story is this_

_She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss_

_Her sweet kiss_

_But the story is this_

_She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss_

He stops, tossing the guitar aside so he can pull his knees up to his chest. He’d had everything that he could possibly want, right within his grasp, and somehow it had slipped through his fingers.

It isn’t fair. He’d—he’d really liked Geralt.

* * *

There’s a purple hyacinth sitting on his front step when he goes downstairs that morning.

He blinks at it, uncomprehending, and then says, “What the fuck?”

Jaskier looks up and down the street but he doesn’t see anyone who might have left the flower on his doormat. It’s early, just barely past dawn. The only people who are usually awake at this hour are Triss and Geralt. Triss is in her flat and Geralt has no reason to be delivering him flowers.

He brings the flower inside, twisting it between his fingers curiously. There’s no ribbon attached to it, or note, nothing that could tell him who’s given him a springtime flower in the middle of the summer.

“How did they even find you?” he murmurs.

* * *

He thinks it’s a fluke but the next day, there’s a single dandelion on the door mat.

* * *

It’s a gloxinia the next day.

He adds it to the hyacinth and the dandelion in the vase on the front counter and spends most of the morning staring at the three flowers, trying to figure out who could possibly want to give him flowers.

“Those are nice,” one of his regulars, Juliette, says, nodding at the flowers. “From a secret admirer?”

“I have no idea,” he tells her honestly.

“I hope they are,” she says. “You deserve someone nice.”

* * *

The next day brings another dandelion, followed by a gardenia, and then another dandelion.

The day after that is a red carnation.

“Quite the bouquet you’re growing,” one of his other regulars, Mr. Evans, says.

Jaskier finishes arranging his bouquet of red roses and adds the last fake rose to the arrangement. “They _are_ nice, aren’t they?” he says.

“Do you know who they’re from?”

“No,” he says wistfully. I wish I did.”

* * *

The day he gets the smilax, he calls one of the flower shops in Vizima, the only one he knows of in a two-hour drive that sells smilax flowers.

“Hi, this is Jaskier from A New Leaf,” he says as soon as Priscilla picks up. “Have you sold a bouquet of smilax flowers recently?”

“Ooh, yes,” Priscilla says. “Just last night.”

“Can you tell me who you sold them to?”

“Sorry, no,” she says, not sounding very sorry at all. “They asked us not to say anything. Isn’t it romantic?”

“No,” he says flatly. “It’s frustrating.”

She titters. He hangs up on her.

* * *

There’s a pink zinnia after that and then a red rose and a daffodil and a jonquil and then dandelions upon dandelions in between all of them and Jaskier has no idea what is going on until Mrs. Pickory asks him if he’s looked up the meaning of them yet.

“The meaning?” he asks blankly.

“Flower language,” she says exasperatedly and raps him over the head with her handbag. “You have yourself some young admirer and you haven’t even bothered to figure out what they’re saying? They must think you hate them.”

Flower language hadn’t even occurred to him. He cares so little for it that he hadn’t thought that his secret admirer might think he does.

As soon as she’s gone, he pulls down his books on flower language and starts going through them.

Purple hyacinth for sorrow and forgiveness.

Gloxinias for love at first sight.

Gardenias for secret loves.

Red carnations for admiration and yearning.

Smilax for loveliness.

Pink zinnias for lasting affection.

Red roses for love.

Daffodils for unrequited love but somehow he thinks that his admirer is using the other meaning—the sun is always shining when I’m with you.

And dandelions. Dandelions for faithfulness and happiness.

* * *

There’s a woman in his shop when he goes downstairs the next morning.

Actually, no.

There’s not _a woman_ in his shop. _Yen_ is in his shop. He rubs his eyes, not quite sure if he’s hallucinating her, but she’s still there after he blinks. “What are you doing here?” he asks. “How did you get in here?”

“Spare key behind the dumpster? Not the best hiding place,” she drawls.

“What are you talking about? I don’t have a key behind—” He stops. He’d never been able to locate the spare key after his mum passed away. He’d just always assumed that she’d lost it. “Never mind. Who are you?”

He knows, of course, and given the way her eyebrow arches, she knows that he knows. She humors him anyway. “Yennefer Vengerberg,” she says, holding out a perfectly manicured hand.

He shakes it, musing thoughtfully, “I know that name…Yennefer…Yennefer…The pastry chef?” Triss adores her, wants her to do the cake for her eventual wedding.

“The very same,” she says proudly.

Great. So not only does he have to compete—not that he’s competing; no, he’s _conceding_ —with the most beautiful woman in the world, but she’s a celebrity too.

“Jaskier,” he says.

“Yes, I know.” She seems amused about something though he can’t imagine what. “Geralt said you might have a job for me?”

Well now that he knows what a big deal she is, he doesn’t want to tell her. But he’s not so petty as to do that to Triss so he pats his jacket down, looking for a pen and paper. “Right...” he mutters. “Let me just find something—”

Yen sighs and hands him her phone, already opened to her contacts list. “Just put it in here.”

Jaskier blushes in embarrassment. She must think he’s an idiot. “So I’m sure Geralt told you. Triss broke her ankle a couple weeks ago. She’s looking for someone to help out in the shop while she recovers,” he says as he inputs Triss’s contact information. He goes to hand her back the phone but she’s no longer standing in front of him.

She’s at the front counter, examining the flowers he’s gotten from his secret admirer. “This is an interesting bouquet,” she comments, idly poking at one of the petals on the hyacinth. It’s starting to die and he’ll soon need to throw out the arrangement but he can’t bear to do it yet. “Did you do it yourself?”

“Uh, no,” he says. “Please don’t—” He stops before he can ask her not to touch it. She already seems to know exactly what’s going on in his brain. He doesn’t need to give her a free pass to read his mind. “They’ve been showing up on my doorstep. I don’t know who they’re from.”

She turns to face him, an incredulous look on her face. “You don’t know?” she says slowly, like she thinks he’s an idiot.

He shakes his head. “Anyway,” he says as he passes her the phone, “how do you know Geralt?”

He’s not entirely certain why he asks, except that he’s jealous and curious and knows perfectly well that Geralt will never tell him.

“Oh, he’s my ex-husband,” Yen says airily.

Jaskier’s brain screeches to a halt.

“He’s your what?”

“My ex-husband,” she repeats, now looking over an array of purple roses. “You know, these are exquisite. How much would they cost?”

“It depends on the size of the arrangement,” he says distractedly. “Hang on. Go back. Your ex-husband?”

She glares at him and snaps, “That’s what I said.”

“Ex?”

“Are you stupid or something? Yes, he’s my ex. We got divorced some five years ago.”

“But you’re getting back together?”

She frowns. “Why would you think that?”

It’s his turn to frown now. “Because you’re moving to Oxenfurt?” he says though it’s more of a question than anything else.

“I wanted to be a part of Ciri’s life again since he won’t come back to Novigrad but—” She shudders. “Geralt and I aren’t getting back together. We didn’t really work well as a couple.”

“But the pictures—”

“Haven’t you ever had a relationship that was fantastic when it was good but absolute hell on earth when it was bad?” she asks.

No, actually, he hasn’t. He’s never really had any sort of relationship other than his one-night stands. He hasn’t even wanted one until Geralt came along.

Yen must read it in his face because she says, “That’s a shame. Everyone needs at least one relationship like that.”

“That doesn’t sound healthy,” he tells her.

She ignores him.

“I think I want these after all,” she says, lightly tapping at the purple roses. “How much for a dozen?”

He rattles off the price. She sighs but doesn’t even bother haggling, which is nice of her. He’s run across plenty of customers who are shocked by the price of a bouquet and try to negotiate with him and that’s just plain rude.

As she’s paying, she runs a finger across his bouquet from his admirer. “You really should give him an answer soon, you know. He’s getting worried.”

“And how do you think I should do that?” he says. “I don’t know who they are.”

She quirks a condescending smile at him. “Then I suggest you figure it out.”

* * *

Renfri calls him that afternoon. “Please tell me we can fuck her,” she says as soon as he picks up.

“Hello to you too,” he replies. “Fuck who?”

“Yennefer.”

He nearly spits out his tea. “I’m sorry, I think I misheard you. You want to fuck _who_?”

“Yennefer Vengerberg,” Renfri repeats impatiently. “I know you’re mad at her so we won’t ask her out if you don’t want us to but honestly, you shouldn’t be. She’s not getting back together with Geralt.”

“I know. She told me this morning.”

“You already met her? I assumed she got Triss’s info from Geralt.”

“I met her,” he mutters. “She broke into my shop.”

Renfri doesn’t even miss a beat before saying, “Good. Maybe now you’ll upgrade your security system.”

He scowls. “What makes you so sure she’s even interested in women?” he asks instead of replying to her jab.

“She told us.”

“She did?”

“Yeah, says that’s why she ended things with Geralt. So, can we ask her out or not? She says she’s tired of living with Geralt and having to deal with his pining.”

He pauses. “Pining?”

“Mmhmm. Jas, can we ask her out?”

“She specifically said ‘pining?’”

“ _Yes_. Will you answer the fucking question, Jas?”

“Why are you even asking me? You’re going to do whatever you want no matter what I tell you.” He hangs up without waiting for her reply.

Geralt is _pining_.

His gaze falls on his bouquet and just like that, he knows who’s been giving him flowers.

* * *

He’s in the shop even before Geralt, shirtless and drinking from a water bottle, comes downstairs for his run. Geralt stops dead when he sees him strumming his guitar, working on the song he’d written about Yen, as he perches on the counter.

Jaskier finishes his verse without looking at Geralt and then puts the guitar aside. “Your Yen, huh?” he asks.

Geralt is still standing there looking like someone clubbed him over the head. After he’s silent for too long, Jaskier raises his eyebrows. “Uh,” he says eventually. “She’s not—”

“That’s what you told me.”

He frowns now. “I don’t remember saying anything like that.”

“At dinner,” he prompts.

Geralt’s expression clears. “I misspoke.”

“So I heard,” he says dryly. “She told me the other day, said that you were her ex-husband and that neither of you wanted to get back together. So my question is this, why call her yours if you don’t really want her back?”

“It was recent,” Geralt says quietly. “A few years ago. We were fighting all the time, it was taking a toll on Ciri, and then Yen realized she was more interested in women than she was in me.”

Jaskier winces. “That’s gotta hurt.”

Geralt just shrugs. “I saw it coming but I was—I wanted to hold on to her so we fought. Took us a while to become friends again. That night, at dinner, I was going to call her my friend but…but it’s complicated. _Yen’s_ complicated. So I changed my mind. She’s not mine though.”

“Oh,” he says. “That—that actually makes sense in a weird, Geralt kind of way.”

“Geralt kind of way?”

Fortunately, Geralt doesn’t look offended so Jaskier feels no shame in saying, “You know. You’ve got this sort of convoluted way of thinking.”

“ _I’m_ convoluted? You’re the one who thought I was trying to get back together with my ex-wife and didn’t ask,” Geralt points out.

“Let’s not dwell on the past,” he sniffs. Geralt huffs softly, eyes crinkling at the corners in amusement, and Jaskier smiles back at him. “I want to talk about something else really.”

“And what’s that?”

“Why you’re leaving flowers on my doorstep.”

Geralt goes very still, which, for a man who doesn’t believe in flailing, is very still indeed. “You—I—who said I was?” he stammers after a moment.

Jaskier bites back another smile. “No one. But Yen pretty heavily implied when she came to see me yesterday.”

“She came to see you?”

“It’s not like you had Triss’ phone number. She wouldn’t have needed to if you’d be a little friendlier and stop changing the subject. Why were you leaving me flowers?”

Geralt sighs and rubs the back of his neck, which is turning a faint shade of red, Jaskier notes with interest. He’ll have to remember that for later. If there is a later. No. There will definitely be a later.

“I thought I did something,” Geralt admits. His other hand is clenching and unclenching on his water bottle and Jaskier watches it for a moment before dragging his gaze back up to Geralt’s.

“Something?”

“To upset you.”

“So you brought me flowers.”

“Mmhmm.”

“But not just any flowers,” Jaskier finishes. “You used flower language. And that’s what I can’t figure out because you know I don’t use that in my arrangements.”

“No,” Geralt agrees. “But it was important once and I thought maybe you might. Might. Like it.”

A delighted smile spreads across Jaskier’s face. “You were being romantic.”

“Wasn’t,” he denies immediately.

“You were,” Jaskier disagrees cheerfully. “Because you _like_ me.” He stops as the words sink in. That blush is spreading across the tips of Geralt’s ears and down to his cheeks. “You like me,” he repeats, awed.

“Yeah,” Geralt says gruffly. “I do.”

He inhales shakily. He’s not entirely certain what he had been expecting, another one of those deflections maybe, but this blunt honesty isn’t it. It’s disarming. It’s terrifying. It’s…wonderful. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t see it earlier, that I left you. I’m sorry—”

“Jas,” Geralt interrupts. He reaches for Jaskier’s hand, using it to tug himself forward until he’s standing right between Jaskier’s parted legs. Like this, Jaskier is just a few inches taller than him and it’s—new. And different though he supposes that when they had sex against the door, Jaskier had been taller that time. But he doesn’t remember being taller. He remembers feeling caged in, feeling _smaller_ even if he hadn’t been. Geralt is _supposed_ to be taller than him. It’s just right that way.

“Jas,” Geralt says again. He puts the water bottle on the counter, next to the guitar, and then puts both hands on Jaskier’s thighs. “I’m sorry too for not telling you everything. You—you’re it for me and—”

Jaskier cuts him off by kissing him. He can’t just sit here, can’t just hear these wonderful things being said to him, and _not_ want to kiss him. Geralt’s mouth is already open, frozen as Jaskier stops him from saying anything more, his hands tightening on Jaskier’s legs.

“Stop,” Jaskier whispers, kissing him again and again until Geralt wraps his arms around his waist, hot mouth sliding against his. “You’re amazing. Oh god, do you even know how amazing you are?”

“I’m not,” Geralt mutters.

“You are. You’re gorgeous, you’re everything, you’re—”

Geralt shuts him up with another kiss, tongue sliding into his mouth. Jaskier moans and wraps his legs around him, keeping him pressed against his body. His hands move up Geralt’s chest to his shoulders, feeling those strong muscles under his palms, tweaking his nipples and laughing into Geralt’s mouth when he jumps and groans.

“Mine,” he finishes, pulling away to kiss the tempting tendon in Geralt’s neck. “You’re _mine_.”

He can’t quite believe it, that he gets to have this, that he gets to have _Geralt_. Geralt wants him. They’ll be hard-pressed to be rid of each other now. Jaskier is never letting him go and as for him, he’ll never leave Geralt’s side. He doesn’t have to concede to Yen, doesn’t have to concede to anyone. This is his and he’ll defend his claim here until he dies.

“Little lark,” Geralt groans. His hands slide down to Jaskier’s ass and lift. Jaskier will deny to anyone that he yelps. No, he’s just…startled. Anyone would be when they find themselves suddenly lifted.

Geralt chuckles while Jaskier clutches onto his shoulders for dear life.

“Warn a guy next time,” he snaps half-heartedly.

Geralt isn’t laughing anymore, his eyes drawn by Jaskier’s mouth. “You’re mine too,” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” Jaskier says, brushing the words across Geralt’s lips. “I am.”

“Upstairs,” Geralt grunts, moving them in the direction of the stairs.

“Hold on,” Jaskier says. “You have—” Geralt’s mouth is insistent and hot on the skin of his collarbone. Jaskier’s sure he’ll find a bruise there later. “Clients,” he gasps. “And Ciri. She’s upstairs.”

“She’s at Yen’s,” Geralt says, unlocking the door and starting upstairs. Part of Jaskier is delighted by what this means. The rest of him is frustrated that Geralt isn’t kissing him anymore.

“You still have clients,” he reminds him.

He shrugs. “They’ll reschedule.”

“You’re remarkably blasé about your business. How do you stay open?”

They’re inside Geralt’s apartment now. Jaskier spares a brief thought for how grateful he is that Ciri isn’t here getting ready for school. That would be so fucking embarrassing.

Probably not enough to make him stop though.

“You’re remarkably talkative for someone about to be fucked,” Geralt growls, kicking open his bedroom door. It thuds against the other wall, rebounding off of it hard enough that it shudders in the frame.

“No but seriously,” Jaskier protests. “Surely they don’t all reschedule.”

Geralt pulls away to glare at him. “They don’t. I have more than enough business to make up for it. Now are you going to shut up or do I have to make you?”

Jaskier grins. “Make me.”

He’s airborne in the next moment, landing with an _oof_ on the bed. He crawls backward toward the pillows, watching avidly as Geralt reaches over his head to pull his shirt off. His breath catches in his throat as his eyes trail over Geralt’s chest, the definition of the muscles in his stomach, stopping on the outline of the bulge in his pants. He wants that: in his mouth, in his ass, he doesn’t really care where.

He drags his gaze back up to where Geralt is looking at him somewhat nervously. “Geralt,” he says. “Come here.”

Geralt pounces.

* * *

They’re curled together afterward, Jaskier draped across Geralt’s chest, mouthing absently at his neck, when he finally asks the question he’s been thinking about for weeks.

“Are you leaving Iris Lane?” he asks, trying to hide how worried he is. _Are you leaving me?_

From the look Geralt gives him, he doubts that he was able to hide his worry entirely. “Why do you think that?”

“Yen said you didn’t belong here.”

“I don’t,” Geralt agrees.

Jaskier tenses. He didn’t think Geralt would just come out and _say_ it to him. He’s supposed to deny it, supposed to say that he does. Geralt’s hand on his back tightens, holding him still.

“You can’t keep running off, little lark,” Geralt says. He waits for Jaskier to settle back down, not as relaxed as before but better than it was, before sighing deeply. “I don’t. Look around us, Jas. Iris Lane is bookshops and cafes and the cutest little florist in the country.”

He kisses him for that, figuring he deserves that even if he is listing all the reasons he should leave.

“My tattoos don’t belong here,” Geralt continues. “But I belong with you so I’ll stay.”

Jaskier gapes up at him, astonished by the simple, matter of fact way that Geralt says it. “You—”

“I belong,” Geralt repeats slowly, “with you.”

Jaskier scrambles up, straddling him, pressing hard, demanding kisses to Geralt’s lips. Geralt surges up, arm coming around Jaskier’s waist to keep him from falling backward.

“Little lark,” he growls. “Are you—”

“I’m good,” Jaskier pants. He raises up onto his knees, positioning himself so that Geralt’s cock is at his rim, and slides down, groaning as Geralt fills him again.

“Sing for me, Jas,” Geralt orders.

And, huh, that’s not a bad idea.

* * *

Oxenfurt is a university town. It has not one, not two, but many places where an aspiring singer or musician or poet can perform their stuff. When he had been in college, Jaskier had preferred Cintra’s and to this day, when he watches other open mic nights, he still goes there. He thinks it’s a little classier, a little more well-known. It’s launched a couple aspiring artists’ careers with the agents that lurk in the bar every few months. Jaskier has always thought that he would always want to perform there when he finally worked up the courage to perform in Oxenfurt and not traveling an hour away to Cidaris but when Geralt finally manages to talk him into singing one of his songs here instead of somewhere where he can be anonymous, Jaskier originally tries to decide on a place less famous than Cintra’s.

Geralt had talked him round though and now he’s shifting anxiously from foot to foot as the emcee at Cintra’s finishes his introduction.

“You’re going to do just fine,” Geralt breathes into his ear as warm arms wrap around him. Geralt places a quick kiss to his earlobe.

“I’d like to do better than just fine,” Jaskier says nervously, hands twitching at his side.

He can all but see Geralt roll his eyes. “You don’t need me to tell you how amazing you are.”

“I want it anyway though.”

Another kiss to his ear. “You’re going to be amazing just like you always are.”

He doesn’t have time to say anything before the emcee is gesturing toward him. He walks forward on feet that feel leaden, nerves lighting up inside him that haven’t bothered him since the first time he performed in Cidaris.

He settles on his stool, propping his guitar up on his knee before looking out into the crowd. Renfri and Triss are just now sitting down after spending most of the night at the bar. Renfri shoots him a thumbs up, Triss a reassuring grin. Yen isn’t with them tonight, instead volunteering to watch Ciri for the night. She’s not so bad really, not now that he has Geralt in his bed every night and she spends hers with Renfri and Triss.

Geralt is sidling along the edge of the crowd to the very back, positioning himself directly in Jaskier’s eyeline if he looks up from the guitar. He nods once and maybe that wouldn’t be enough for some people, for a lot of people he suspects, but it’s enough for Jaskier.

“My name is Jaskier,” he says, “and I’ll be singing a song I wrote.”

_The call of the White Wolf is loudest at the dawn._

_The call of a stone heart is broken and alone._

__

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: Jaskier asks at one point why Geralt and Ciri had to leave Novigrad. Ciri tells him that an older man was following her and Geralt was protective and went after him


End file.
